


_Loose Ends

by glenarvon



Series: _Brilliancy [21]
Category: Watch Dogs (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, F/M, Gen, Hacking, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-03 12:02:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4100254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glenarvon/pseuds/glenarvon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some debts can't be left unpaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think maybe I haven't paid enough attention to the finer details of Poppy’s backstory. I didn’t want to address her psychological trauma in depth since it isn’t very interesting to me. I’m still not getting into it, but some of it needs to be acknowledged.
> 
> This time around, I've managed to kickstart my own inspiration by crashing my car in the tunnel where Lena died. I didn't expect just how guilty that made me feel. 
> 
> I swear to god this was supposed to be in one part and at a decent length. Alas, it wasn’t to be…

[takes place in 2015, after _Nightcall: Running With Scissors]

* * *

Something was different today.

Aiden slipped his hand up over her breast in a slow caress, traced the sharp edge of a collarbone before he splayed his fingers along her jaw. His other hand rested on her hip, holding her close with the weight of his arm alone.

She didn't like _gentle_ , it made her feel vulnerable. She brought her hand up, closed it around his wrist and held him in place while she angled her head to the side, lunged for his fingers with her mouth and pulled one between her teeth to entice him into something harder. She nestled back into him, laced the fingers of her other hand with his, added the force he was withholding.

Close enough to feel his breathing against her back, Aiden went still, a tension he indadvertedly transferred to her. He shifted his hand on her face, freed his finger and trailed a wet line down her throat, tilting her head a little further to the side. She didn't understand the significance until he traced the scar on her throat with the tips of two fingers — one wet, one dry — the same too delicate touch.

"I never asked," he said quietly, close to her ear, then he drew back a little, pressed his nose to the junction of her jaw. His breathing brushed over her skin, she even felt the faint whisper of his eyelashes as he blinked. "If it's okay," he added, pressed down for a moment against her throat to emphasis his meaning, then let up again.

She laughed at how ridiculous it was, but the tension remained as he waited for an answer.

She said, "It's different if it's you. I trust you."

He was silent too long and in that silence, she could sense his mind work.

Finally he said, "I saw it."

Donna sat up abruptly, glad for the first time for his lax hold, because his hands simply fell away from her, gave her the space she needed to turn on the couch and face him. The sun had dipped down a while ago, but the sky still had some glimmer of silver to it, just enough to make out the outline of his face, not enough to really read in it.

"What do you mean?" she asked, but only because it was something to say. Of course, she’d known most of the rooms had had surveillance, it kept the girls on an even shorter leash, but mostly, it kept the _clients_ under control, one more tool for the Club to strengthen and expand it's influence. She'd never really thought about _her_ being in these videos, too, or that people would see them. That _he_ would, eventually.

Aiden exhaled, sharply, she hadn't noticed he'd stopped breathing when she’d moved away from him.

"I wasn't looking for you," he said, sounded a little defensive. "I was looking for someone else. I knew she'd been sent to the auction, but she wasn't among the rescued girls. I went through the hard-drives the CPD confiscated. Someone tried deleting everything, but didn't have time to do a good job. I recovered some of it."

Donna's gaze wandered away from him and aimlessly around the room. Her mind seemed to have emptied out and left her a hollow shell. She didn't know if she still felt anything in that moment at all, even her body was strange. She didn't know how long she sat there and said nothing, though she knew distantly he was studying her.

"Vincent Fisher," Aiden said and the name felt like a whiplash over her back. She didn't think she flinched, but she wasn't sure. Fisher was an old friend of Demarco's, he'd been running several clubs at the time Donna was given to the Infinite 92. Fisher was a useful threat to keep the girls in line, a sadist who got off on breaking resistance. Something had happened, though, and Fisher had been replaced by someone else. He'd still been around, but his authority hadn’t been what it used to be. She hadn't seen him at the auction.

Aiden continued, "That other girl I was looking for, he took her."

"Who?" she asked, but the word came out almost too faintly to be heard.

"The girl? Her name is Abigail Vega. I…" he hesitated. "I have a debt to pay and she's the only one left. She wasn't at the auction because one of the 'guests' beat her unconscious before it even kicked off. Some of Lucky's people took her to a mob doctor who patched her up. She got sold to a brothel, run by Fisher and supported by the Club. "

"I don't know her," she said. All the girls, it became difficult to distinguish them after a time, even in the Infinite 92, most didn't last very long and were replaced.

Donna caught herself chewing on her lower lip and forced her teeth from her own flesh. She turned around to face him. He'd sat up, too, she hadn't noticed, pulled one leg under him and sat straight against the side of the couch.

"Did you see everything?" she asked.

"That video has been overwritten a few times, I recovered only about twenty seconds of it. Reconstructing data like that, you never know what gets dug up. I had to look at everything."

The thought eased her a little. For a moment, she thought of returning to him, curl up in his arms and just wait until her mind filled up again of it's own and she could think straight again.

It _was_ different with him, but perhaps not different enough and she didn't feel like she wanted to be held. Instead, she stood up and took a few steps, glad her legs carried her and put a vigour into her step she hadn't expected to fake.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"Get the girl out," he said. "Make sure the dirty cops are cut out of the loop and give the good cops a tip."

"What about… Fisher?" she asked and finally managed to face him again. He hadn't moved since the last time, but it had grown too dark to see much more than his outline.

He said nothing at first, but he must have heard something in her voice she hadn't realised she had put there, because he said, "I could use your help on this."

He paused, seemed to regard her and see more than she did in the dark. "If you want to."

"I think I do," she said. She heard no conviction in her own voice, she still seemed to lack the emotions to put anything there. But something shook awake in her when Aiden slipped to his feet, crossed the room and switched on a light in a corner, then walked to the computers. The screens lit up, more information spread out among them than any one person should have, Donna thought.

After a moment, she walked forward to join him.

"It's not a complicated plan," he said. "I can get in, no problem. Walking out with Abbie won't be as easy."

He summoned a street-plan to his central monitor. "That's the general area. Not a lot of wriggle room. We can get hemmed in from all sides quickly."

"Why not just tip the cops directly?" Donna asked. "I know some of the good ones. A raid on that place gets all the girls out."

"Yes, but it won't give us Fisher. He's managing several places, he's on the move a lot, timing it just right, I dunno. Don't trust the cops to get it right," Aiden pointed out. "He gets away, it'll just make him more careful in the future. Besides, I thought you wanted a private chat with him first."

Donna took her gaze away from the monitor and studied his profile. "That's not…" she started and stopped. "I wouldn't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Aiden said, leaned back into his chair and looked up at her. "You don't have to _do_ anything. But Fisher's going down and his little organisation is going with him."

She put a hand on the desk in an attempt to stand comfortably. She said, "You should buy a second chair."

Aiden was still for a moment, his expression relaxed, but she could tell he was considering pulling her in his lap, but he never made the move and she never knew if she’d have allowed it. Fisher was in that space between them, Fisher and the Infinite 92 and everything that had happened there. What he'd seen on twenty seconds of video and everything he suspected he _hadn't_ seen.

He curved an eyebrow upward, a lacklustre attempt at levity. He turned his attention away from her and at the computer.

"Yeah, I should," he agreed.

* * *

Days and night flowed into each other, indistinguishable, playing out the same farce. Abbie didn't know how long she'd been there exactly, but she knew it was long enough to find a routine to cling to. The heroin made it both easier and harder. She didn't have to worry about where it was coming from as long as she didn't act up. She knew she was losing herself — or it had already happened — but it was so difficult to care. In quiet moment, she wanted to care, though. She wanted to remember her old life and weep for it. She wanted to worry about Maurice, wonder where he was and if he'd found some solution for himself at least, if not for both of them.

It was not a brothel like the ones she'd seen briefly. There were no trappings of class, no colourful lights, just a series of rundown apartments in a decrepit building. The men who frequented this place couldn't show their faces anywhere else, they didn't just want sex. These men didn't come to play, they came to hurt. If they paid enough, no one cared. If the girl was damaged beyond repair, Fisher and the Club just sold them off. No one knew where to, because it didn't seem like it could be any place worse than this. Organ trade, maybe.

Abbie had been lucky so far, if 'lucky' was the word at all, she had only been beaten up and raped. No damage that didn't heal fast enough and no client ever seemed to care if she was bruised or bloodied and only few cared if her moans were fake pleasure or real pain. It had been bad enough to give her some sense of men, though. She'd always been a terrible judge of character, Maurice kept bringing it up jokingly, because she'd fallen in love with him, but it turned out, she'd just never had the right incentive.

It helped if she gauged the men right and reacted the way they wanted her to, it alleviated the suffering they would inflict, at least a little. Or perhaps she was just fooling herself, pretending to retain some control.

Leaning out the window, once, she'd seen the holes in the bricks, where the fire stairs had been. She sometimes wondered what it'd be like, trying to escape, how she'd do it, where she'd go, but the drugs wrapped her head in fluff and the men exhausted her body.

The door was pushed open and she turned her head. She sat curled up on a chair by the open window, smoking one cigarette after the other. The day was longer than the nights and sleep never a good idea.

She watched with dull eyes as a man stepped inside. He turned and closed the door, turned the key and it clicked too loudly, made her flinch though she'd promised herself so often she wouldn't. She hated the sound of that key. Her hand was shaking as she brought the cigarette back to her mouth, took a last drag and then threw it out the window.

He lingered by the door for a long moment, listening for noises outside, but it also gave her a chance to observe him. In Abbie's experience, there were no harmless men, not in this place, but this one was genuinely dangerous. Not because he was tall and muscular, not because he was armed. All these could be attributes of the weak, in an effort not to appear so. This man's danger was announced by the almost unassuming confidence of his posture, something careless and natural.

"No one's spying," Abbie said tiredly. "We don't have any cameras here. No one bothers. No one cares."

He turned to face her, she saw a phone in his hand. If he'd leapt the room and ripped her from the chair, she wouldn't have been surprised, but he just watched her. "I know," he said. "Abbie? I'm getting you out."

She chortled, it just happened without her wanting to. “Roleplaying?” she asked. “That’s not really what we offer… but whatever gets you up. What do you want from me?"

A tiny smile flickered across his features, but he remained serious. "I want you to put on some clothes and shoes."

Gradually, it sank through that he wasn't _joking,_ unless he got off on that kind of thing. Everything was possible, but it seemed too complicated for this place's normal clientele.

"Who are you?"

"I knew your husband," he said.

Abbie tensed, a small rush of adrenaline pushed her to her feet, clearing her head. Hope was dangerous, more than any of the men had ever been. It threatened to choke her. "Maurice? Did he sent you? Is he…?"

"He's dead," he interrupted, his deep voice turned even rougher. "I'll explain, but we need to get out first."

He watched her again, silently and she felt judged, but unable to do anything. His tone became softer. "My name's Pearce," he said. "Don't worry, it'll be fine. There are only three men downstairs, I can handle them, no problem. But do you know of any other surprises?"

"N-no, I don't think so," she said, hung her shoulders. "I don't know, I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Just get ready."

She usually didn't bother getting dressed. It made her feel strange, opening the drawer and pulling out a top and a pair of jeans. The clothes barely seemed to belong to her anymore. _Normal_ clothes, like a normal woman, in charge of her own life.

A few pairs of high-heels stood in a corner, but her sneakers weren't there.

"I have no good shoes," she said, meekly.

He walked back across the room to the door. She noticed he took care not to get too close to her. She thought she'd shrunk back from him before, but she wasn't even sure. He must have noticed, though.

"It'll do," he assured her. "We got a car ready."

He turned away from her as she dressed, a completely unnecessary gesture, but it was still a relief. She heard him talk on the phone with someone.

"… yeah, we'll be moving in a minute," Pearce said. “Don’t hang up. - - - Shit, that was quick…”

Abbie froze at the abrupt change of tone. Pearce turned on his heels and hurried to the window, cast a quick look outside.

"Okay… _no,_ don't come here - - - No, but be ready. - - - Follow my lead and come pick us up where I say. - - - Good."

"Something wrong?" Abbie asked, still only half-dressed, her body didn't seem to be working as it should. Perhaps hoping for rescue was foolish, it didn't happen in real life.

Pearce passed a quick glance over her, he raised a finger at her, stalking back to the door.

"Just keep going," he said, transferred the phone to his other hand and drew his gun. He leaned his back into the wall, gaze cast down on his phone. He flicked his thumb over the screen a few times.

Abbie forced her stiff fingers to work faster. It was hard to focus, she saw him only from the corners of her eyes as she pulled the jeans up, it was uncomfortably tight on her bruised skin. She slipped the shirt on and picked the shoes that seemed most comfortable.

He gave her no other directions so she sat down on the bed, waited, fixed on him just in time to see him reach for the key and turn it slowly. It creaked only a little, probably not enough to be heard outside.

Pearce looked back at her quickly, gestured with his phone until she finally took the hint and slipped to her knees beside the bed. He didn't look happy with her position, but he ran out of time to argue. He turned his attention back to the door, adjusted the height of his gun slightly, then fired through the door, twice.

His gun had a silencer screwed on and the sound it made was dull, much quieter than the splintering of cheap wood and the sounds of pain from outside. Pearce didn't wait, he ripped the door open and flew through it. The door hung ajar, but he was momentarily out of sight, Abbie could only hear. Voices, shouting orders to each other, the quiet snap of Pearce's silenced gun and two louder shots, burying into through the wall.

Abbie curled down, pressed to the side of her bed, twitching with every sound she heard, every shot, every thud, every moan of pain or just surprise. It sounded like a fight, short, but brutal, before the sounds tapered off.

"Abbie!" Pearce called, pushed the door open, but remained standing in the doorway. "Listen," he said when she looked up at him from wide eyes.

"Stay with me, but don't get too close. Can you do that?"

She nodded hesitantly, pulled herself up to her feet by the blanket, felt pointlessly reluctant to let go of it. Pearce gave her a last, critical look, but said nothing. He dipped back out the door and Abbie had no option but follow him.

Five men were scattered in the hallway, some were still alive, but they were all clearly out of commission. Pearce ignored them as he headed for the stairwell. Abbie stepped around them carefully. She recognised some of them, handlers and bouncers for Fisher.

She kept Pearce in her sight, tried to make sense of some of what he was doing with the phone in one hand, constantly glancing down on it. She followed him down the stairs and stopped when he gestured her to, pressed her back into the wall hard, like pushing right through.

Men came up the stairs, hurried steps, careless. Pearce leaned down over the stair rail, took aim and fired, shifted the angle and shot again, followed by a shocked yell, the dull sound of bodies hitting the floor and someone else hastily drawing back through a door.

Pearce ran down and Abbie saw him kick the door open again, duck low just in time to avoid a round of bullets. She heard the low sound of his silenced gun, a scream, a thud. Still poised in the open doorway, Pearce gripped hold of another man, pulled him in close and knocked him out with a head-butt.

He glanced up at her, nodded and Abbie moved down slowly, picking up speed only when he did. She'd been wrong about him, Abbie thought, he wasn't dangerous, he was _terrifying._ Abbie knew these men in the hallways, they were Club soldiers, enforcers, no strangers to violence of every kind, but they seemed to barely slow him down. Abbie didn't feel sorry for any of these men, but she didn't think she'd ever seen anyone fight with such ruthless efficiency. He didn't care if he killed or just maimed, but he took them out of the fight for good in whatever way presented itself.

On the ground floor, he gestured for her to stop. A makeshift office had been set up in the hallway just by the main door, expanded by breaking out some walls to nearby apartments. The few times Abbie had seen it, everything had had a makeshift appearance, about to come crashing down just like the rest of the building.

Pearce didn't seem to like the spot she'd chosen, looked around briefly and said, "Over there," and pointed with his phone. "Wait."

She scampered to the spot, hidden behind a broken couch someone had dumped in the hallway. Bewildered and overwhelmed, she watched as he did something on his phone and a few moments later a series of small explosions echoed down the hallway. They were not strong enough to really shake the building, but Abbie felt some faint vibration in the wall she was pressed against. She heard more screams and finally figured out why they were strange. People screamed all the time here, but they usually weren't male voices.

Pearce didn't wait for the noise to die down. He raced down the hall and around the corner and though Abbie stayed put behind the couch, her overactive mind filled in the details in gory, colourful precision. The explosions had shaken the men lying in ambush, knocked some of them out and set others on fire, rendering them unpredictable, but easy targets. Pearce could duck behind a piece of wall, left standing as a pillar to support the ceiling. The bullets made a dark, crunching sound as they ripped into it. Pearce could use the moment fire shots of his own, with much better aim than them. Abbie pictured the small, perfect circles in their foreheads.

She twitched when something crashed and she didn't know what it was. Someone falling into a table, she decided, the chairs skittering aside and whatever was on the table shattered to the ground. She heard someone yelling, a groan that broke into a pained scream, a curse that was quickly silenced.

Around the corner, she heard Pearce say, "I'm seeing sixteen out front, are there any more?"

He walked back around the corner, phone and gun in his hand as he spoke with his partner. He caught Abbie's wide-eyed gaze and motioned her to follow. "Right," he said and seemed to think.

Abbie stepped around the corner to see the carnage she'd pictured, there was nothing there that'd contradict her version, but she had forgotten to add in the stench of burning flesh, or that some of the men were still moving, shivering or crawling away.

"Fucking bitch!" someone groaned from the side, made a lunge for her leg. On some strange reflex, Abbie stepped down on his hand with the heel of her shoe as hard as she could. The man shrieked, nearly tore her from her feet in his frenzy to get away.

Pearce came close, gripped her upper arm and pulled her away, gave the man a kick to make him draw back.

Still speaking on the phone, Pearce said, "We'll take a window and make a run for it. Come pick us up at the corner of Wilton/Wrightwood. - - - I know, it'll work."

He turned to Abbie, "There are about twenty men waiting outside. I don't know why they haven't moved in yet, but that's just a question of time. There are others at the back, but not as many. We don't have a lot of time, so stay close and keep your head down. Did you understand that?"

Abbie found her mouth had gone dry and she wouldn't be able to speak up, even if she knew anything to say. Other girls and some of their clients had appeared behind them slowly edging forward, more confused and frightened than Abbie herself. Pearce ignored them, but Abbie looked back at them, hoping for an answer.

Pearce made a low growl in his throat, and added, "Come on, move it."

He gripped her arm again, pulled her along so hard she stumbled and toppled into him, but he held up as if her weight was nothing. The gaze he dropped on her had weight, an instant only, but enough to assess her entire state of being, her entire history and he didn't look at her like a rescuer at all. He didn't let that moment last, either, and only ushered her into a room opened the window, leaned out to check, but then stepped back to let her go first.

His gaze was glued to his phone again, she guessed he received some information on it, but it seemed oddly obsessive of him, considering he'd just kickstarted a firefight. Worse, something must have made the Club guys appear in force like this…

Abbie climbed out of the window, inelegantly with straining, sore muscles and stood in the narrow alley between the two buildings. Pearce swung out beside her. Before he could touch and guide her again, she stepped back, still within reach, but he took his arm away and said, "That way."

She couldn't pick up much speed on the uneven ground, but she was used to walking in high heels. It wasn't fun, but she could do it and Pearce's presence behind her kept pushing her forward.

"How many?" he asked.

She slowed down to look at him, he put the flat of his hand on her back, a very slight touch this time, but enough to keep her moving. He was talking again, "No, don't, I'll handle it."

The alley opened to a street, but before she could step out on it, Pearce yanked her back. She followed the direction of his gaze and saw a dark red car parked on the end of the street, three men got out and hefted their guns, spread out slowly in all directions. The driver got out last and stayed with the car.

"What's going on?" Abbie asked.

"They recognised me," Pearce said, shrugged. "Good."

"How's that good?" Abbie asked and saw Pearce tilt his head to the side a little and smile.

"There's an echo here," he commented. He grew serious again. “It’s the plan, let’s stick with it,” he said and Abbie guessed it was for her as much as for whoever he was talking to on the phone. "I need to jam the ctOS signal for the neighbourhood, don't want the cops interfering. I'll get back to you."

A tap on his phone later and Pearce gestured for Abbie to stay put. He edged forward a little, crouched low behind a row of dumpsters. Abbie watched him take aim and fire. She didn't see the men he hit, but he fired four times and she could do the math. He glanced back at her and said, "Run across the street, make for that alley."

Abbie ran and tried very hard not to slow down when she saw two more cars cut around the corner down the street. It wasn't far, but with every step, the distance seemed to stretch. She didn't know what Pearce was doing, she didn't dare look back.

The cars' tyres screeched on the asphalt as they stopped. She was halfway across when they started shooting, a few random shots in her direction, answered by the quiet bite of Pearce's gun.

Abbie made the alley, breathing hard. She turned around saw Pearce in the middle of the street, arm extended and firing, gun and phone extended. He glanced her way and then threw himself around to break into a run when he realised she was safe. Up on the street, something exploded, far louder than the small explosions in the house. It hit one of the cars and must have broken the fuel tank, because the car went up in a fireball.

"How did you…?" Abbie started, watching the surviving Club soldiers leapt away from the wreck of the car.

"Go!" Pearce snapped at her. "Turn right at the end!"

She ran down this new alley, Pearce close behind.

"- - - yep," he said and the fact that he was running barely made it into his voice. "Small change of plan. We're heading for Schubert Street. - - - Yeah."

Abbie turned right and ran through a badly kept backyard until she was out on the street again, turned right like he'd told her. Cars were parked here. The explosion and shots from earlier had pulled people from their homes, though not nearly as many. It wasn't a good neighbourhood, too much interest in whatever shit went down wasn't healthy here and not nearly unusual enough to warrant the risk.

Another dark car turned into the street just ahead, several others behind it. Abbie yelped in shock, slowed and skittered to the side, behind a parked car. She looked back, spotted Pearce with his back to her. A car was driving right at him, but he must have figured he couldn't dodge away fast enough. He shot the driver, instead and the car veered off sharply. He threw himself to the side and the car missed him narrowly. Pearce rolled back to his feet and whirled around, spotted the other cars ahead.

"Stay out of sight!" he yelled at his unseen partner. He ran past Abbie with only a quick gesture to make her follow.

Abbie hesitated, but when Pearce didn't slow down she had no choice. She was either with him, or she stayed behind and then what? Fisher and the Club, she doubted they'd welcome her back with open arms after all of this. They probably didn't care for one girl, she wasn't special, but this…? Whatever it was, it had something to do with _her_ and Fisher wouldn't just let it go.

She followed Pearce, dodging forward behind the parked cars and dumpsters and some length of rusted fence, but she lost her rhythm and stumbled when she saw Fisher.

Fisher had got out of one of the cars, broad shoulders displayed inside a smartly tailored suit, sunglasses cooly dropped to the tip of his nose as he surveyed the space around him. Club soldiers all around him, moving forward carefully while their cars blocked the street.

"You aren't really out of sight," Pearce scolded. "- - - Not yet. - - -." He sighed. "No, stay there. I can work with it."

Pearce pulled Abbie down by his side behind a low garden wall and a dumpster.

"Behind them," he said. "Do you see the white car?"

Abbie leaned out of cover tentatively. The car he mentioned had drawn up behind the barricade, parked across the street from them and the Club soldiers either hadn't noticed it or ignored it.

"Yes," Abbie said slowly.

"That's our ride. I'll draw their attention, you make for the car."

He seemed to listen to something and said, "I'm sending Abbie your way. Be ready and unlock the trunk. - - - I'm always serious."

He paused or a moment, looked at Abbie. "Are _you_ ready?"

"No," she said. "But I'll never be, anyway."

"You'll make it," he assured her, but it was barely more than a phrase to him, she could tell.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked. "You don't know me." It seemed like a reasonable question, though somewhat belated in the grander scheme of things. Maurice knew some shady people, but Pearce somehow didn't seem to be one of them. Besides, he'd said Maurice was dead, a piece of information that didn't quite seem to compute for her.

Pearce had already been about to move, but now he settled back down by her side. He gave his phone a quick glance, but then focussed on her, _really_ on her for the first time since he'd walked into her room.

"I know what Fisher is," Pearce said. "Maurice… I couldn't help him. I’m making up for that.”

"Is he really dead?"

"Yes," Pearce narrowed his eyes, glanced back at his phone, then along the street. "We don't have time right now. Just trust me a little longer."

He barely waited for her hesitant nod, completely fixed on his phone again. She could tell by his expression something wasn't quite right even before he muttered a quiet curse. His fingers flew over the screen.

Abbie leaned a little out of cover again, spotted Fisher and the others. Fisher had stepped forward, in front of the cars and gestured like a conductor. His men were making their way carefully down the road, checking behind every piece of garbage large enough to hide anyone, behind every parked car and inside every shadowed doorway.

"They're coming closer," she said.

"I know," he growled. "Their radios use a new encryption. I haven't seen it before, I'll just need another second."

Abbie wrapped her arms around herself, hunkered down closer to the dumpster. Not seeing them made it worse, but she didn't dare look in case they spotted her. If anything, Pearce’s tapping sped up.

"Ah," he finally said and a triumphant grin passed over his face. He got up and looked at her.

"At the count of five," he said. "You don't look at me, or them or Fisher, just get in the car, okay?"

She pulled herself up, drew deep breaths, but the air barely got past the lump in her throat.

"Okay," she said hoarsely.

He tapped the screen of his phone and she almost expected another explosion, something even bigger this time, but there was nothing like that, though she heard several surprised screams of pain all along the street, some shots, too, but not aimed at them.

Pearce counted down and Abbie didn’t think, she just did as he told her to. She dipped around the corner of the dumpster and broke into a run. Part of her expected to be greeted by a hail of bullets, unnecessarily because she'd be easy to take down and more useful alive and comparatively unblemished. There was nothing, though. The Club soldiers she'd seen before, they all were occupied with themselves, bending over, ripping at their ears with clawed fingers, whimpering.

Despite what Pearce told her, she couldn’t help but see what was going on around her. Pearce had broken from cover on the other side of the dumpster, closer to the centre of the street. His gun was ready, but he didn't seem to need it. He was fast, too, in the few precious moments it took the Club soldiers to get their earpieces out and reorient themselves, Pearce made it to the barricade.

Fisher hung over the hood of his car, cursing colourfully. He pulled himself up when he spotted Pearce coming at him. Pearce swung his arm and a length of unyielding metal extended in his hand. Barely slowing down, Pearce slammed it into the back of Fisher's legs. Fisher howled in enraged surprise, couldn't do anything but buckle. He caught himself on the hood of his car. Pearce whirled around and swung the baton down at the nape of his neck, then closed in.

He tossed Fisher over the hood, caught his hands and slammed a pair of handcuffs on him before Fisher had time to even react.

Abbie ran past the barricade finally. The white car had moved from it's parking spot, turned and as she made for it, she saw the driver lean back and open the door.

Abbie scrambled in the backseat just as the car burst forward jaggedly, enough speed to make a half-turn. Abbie sat up dazedly, spotted a young, dark-skinned woman in the driver's seat who glanced over her and gave her a tense smile. She then reached down and pulled a switch, made the trunk spring open.

As she leaned out to catch the door and pull it closed, Abbie caught a glimpse of Pearce dragging Fisher along. He tossed him into the trunk, slammed it shut and rounded the car, threw himself into the passenger seat. Behind them, the Club soldiers had recovered, fired some random shots in their direction, but were heading back to their cars.

"Let's go, let's go!" Pearce ordered sharply, strapped the seat belt on.

The driver hit the gas and they shot down the street, just ahead of the Club soldiers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised on 10/May/2017**


	2. Chapter 2

When Donna had still been young and naive, she'd sometimes been the getaway driver for her petty criminal of a boyfriend. It was robbing liquor stores and gas stations or drugstores. Anything he thought didn't have a lot of security going for it. He'd go in, do his thing and dash out, dive into the car and off they were, lost in the night before the store owner had any idea what was going on. CCTV had already been in place in many parts of Chicago, but there had been enough holes in it to squeeze through. She was a good driver, but she wasn't sure any of it really counted when being chased by three Club cars, with a manager of illegal brothels in the trunk and a large-calibre criminal riding shotgun.

She tried very hard not to enjoy it, and in truth, she didn't have a lot of time to waste on running some additional narrative in her head. She was going too fast in a residential area, many of the side streets were narrowed, parked cars on either side leaving just enough room to push through with just some minor scratches.

Aiden's control over ctOS opened the path for them, turned traffic lights just ahead, opened barriers, lowered boulders just to snap them back up right behind them. The Club soldiers didn't dare shoot at them, their boss was in the trunk and hitting him too much of a risk. Aiden had no such qualms. He dropped his phone into his pocket, pulled out a rifle and leaned out of the open window.

Donna saw Abbie in the rear-view mirror, just a snapshot, it was all she had time for. Abbie looked too confused to even be scared. A hand was wrapped around the grip by the door, pulled tight and shaking. Donna thought she was holding up surprisingly well. She hadn't been too keen on most of Aiden's plan, not least of all because she wasn't sure Abbie could handle it.

Aiden hadn't shared all parts of his calculation, but it was easy to guess he needed to save Abbie himself. It wouldn't be enough just to watch from the sidelines and make sure no corrupted cops stepped in.

Aiden had hacked into their pursuers radios and their voices came over the car's speakers, live commentary on just how badly the chase was going for them. It would be amusing, if she could stop worrying about some hapless pedestrian walking out in front of her. She would never be able to stop in time.

A turn took them out of sight for a moment and Aiden climbed back inside, dropped the spend magazine and snapped a fresh one in.

"Take the next right turn and head straight down. We make Cemak Bridge and we'll shake them."

She yanked the car around the corner, scratched over the — thankfully empty — sidewalk, she steadied the car and used the momentary respite to glance at Aiden. It was too quick to get a good look at him, but she said, "Are you sure? Maybe you want to play with them some more?"

He pulled his phone out again, tapped something, then looked up. The GPS came on, filled the small monitor in the centre stack. It pointed her straight ahead.

She heard the smirk in his voice. "So that's what you think of me," he remarked.

"Yes, apparently you don't deserve it at all," she said. She felt the speed of the car through the wheel in her hand and the seat under her.

He laughed, but it got caught in his throat.

"Stop!" he yelled and Donna stepped on the brake without a second thought. Their momentum pushed them into a crossroads. Aiden had yanked the handbrake and it made the car's rear push further, turned them slightly and just enough for a dark car coming from the left to sheer past them at full speed.

The car stopped a little further down, made a small turn and a burst of shots tore through the front of the car. The engine stuttered, then died. Donna opened her hands on the wheel, struggling with the realisation that the car had just been rendered useless.

"Get behind the car!" Aiden yelled. It shook her back immediately, she kicked open the door and rolled out into a crouch. Abbie didn't have the presence of mind. She'd curled up, but didn't move. Donna edged forward until she could open the door. Abbie didn't resist when she was dragged out.

Aiden hadn't lingered. With the phone still in his hand, he'd jumped out, brandishing the assault rifle. The Club soldiers had taken cover behind their car, rather than use the moment to shoot Aiden. Some tap on his phone and a moment later Donna heard someone curse from down the street, joined by other screams. Peering around the car, she saw a man throw something small away and it exploded before it hit the ground.

By then, Aiden was on them. He fired a burst into the nearest soldier's torso, downing him, then dropped down before he could be hit himself.

Donna withdrew back to Abbie.

"What's going on?" Abbie asked. "Why are they all after us?"

Donna arched her brows. "Well, they aren't after _us_ exactly _,"_ she said, but wasn't sure Abbie would take it as reassurance.

They’d made it to Brandon Docks, less pedestrian traffic, but more trucks and vans clogging up the street. A truck had stopped down the street, blocked what cars there were behind it. The driver had got out and taken cover. A handful of other people had congealed on the sidewalk, most of them either keeping their head down or already fleeing.

Donna spotted an old Vespid HMI parked just inside an open gate. She looked back at Abbie and gave her a quick smile. "I'll just find us another car, I won't be long."

Donna cast another glance down the street, caught a glimpse of Aiden tangling briefly with a Club soldier while two others were making a run for cover behind a shipping container at the side. Aiden kicked free and when the soldier stumbled, Aiden brought his gun up and shot him in the head.

No one was looking their way. Donna kept in a crouch as she left the dubious cover of the car, then straightened when she reached the wall surrounding the factory site. She hurried along, hesitated in the gate, but no one was there. The factory seemed to be closed, shuttered up and abandoned. The parked Vespid couldn't be seen by the onlookers, even if they weren't captivated by the more interesting firefight just down the street.

The car was locked and Donna had to smash in a window with a brick. She brushed the broken glass from the seat before she got in, dragged the plastic covering loose and leaned down to fish for the right wires. It had been too long since she'd done this sort of thing, but it came back easily enough. It was perhaps not something she should put on her resumé when she finally got around to apply for a steady position with the CPD.

She listened with half an ear to what was going on around her. The chattering of Aiden's gun, the slightly different and multi-toned noise from soldiers' weapons. She didn't think Aiden ever considered the possibility of his own death when he did things like that. He was too smart not to know, so she supposed it must be because he didn't quite care enough.

In a moment of silence, she looked up, even though she knew there was nothing to see. It occurred to her just how easily Aiden sold her on that idea, too. He mattered to her, in ways she didn’t know how to put into words. But she never managed to be afraid for him.

The Vespid's ignition finally sparked and the engine gave a dark roar as she gave it a little more gas. She pulled the door closed.

She drove the Vespid out of the yard, parked it behind their shot up car and left the engine to idle. Getting out, she leaned over the door and watched. Aiden had dispatched the last soldiers without any visible scratches, but some of their backup had arrived. A second car had just swerved to a halt beside the first. Aiden had turned away from them, he was out in the open in the middle of the street, too far from cover in all directions. Something was wrong in his step, but before Donna had time to place it, Aiden stopped. He didn't turn back fully, just twisted his torso and fired a burst, aimed toward the ground, not the Club soldiers.

A large puddle had formed under the first car, expanding across the cracks in the asphalt. Aiden's bullets skipped on the ground, cut a trail of sparks across the gasoline puddle and set it ablaze. The fire ate up the puddle within seconds, consumed the car and lunged for the other.

Aiden turned his back on them, walked around the broken car for Donna and the Vespid. They exchanged a smile and she saw some kind of mischief spark in his eyes when he saw her.

Behind him, the fire found the fuel tank and send the car up in a fireball, it curled in on itself, forming a mushroom, spewing pitch-black smoke into the sky. The shockwave of the explosion picked up the second car and pushed it off track, a gust of hot wind rolled outward in all directions. Heat and dust made Donna squint, she turned her head away, but couldn't take her eyes off the spectacle. The second car’s tyres ruptured in the heat. Only two of the men inside were getting out, scrambling away in case their car ignited, too.

Donna hurried around to pick up Abbie and usher her into the backseat. Fisher was struggling and the Vespid's trunk was tiny, but he seemed too exhausted to put up much of a fight as Aiden stuffed him in roughly.

"Nice ride," Aiden said as he slipped into the passenger seat. He had a small patch of blood soiling his thigh around the rips of his jeans, but it was't enough blood to worry about.

"That's what I thought," Donna said, brushed over her eyes with the back of her hand to clear her vision. She got behind the wheel again, brought the car around and manoeuvred it carefully through the rapidly building traffic jam, but by the time the first emergency calls went out, they were long gone.

* * *

The memories chased her down the stairs, clinging to her ankles with icy fingers, trying to make her stumble, or just hesitate.

_Vincent Fisher doesn't like girls. He doesn't like boys, either. He's better than that, superior. He holds his clients and his staff in equal contempt, though the latter slightly less so, at least they never_ chose _to burn their fortunes on loose cunts or underaged faggots. In many ways, it makes him perfect to run a fetish club for the mob. There's no pretty face that'd sway him, he presents too few weaknesses to be manipulated._

_He wraps the wire around her throat and pulls tight, pulls her back until her head rests on his chest. Her nostrils fill with the scent of expensive cologne and she feels the delicate fabric of his designer suit against her. Her fingers dig into her own skin, a reflex she can't stop even though she knows she won't be able to free herself._

_It's not pain so much as the fear of it that gives Fisher his power. She's only been here a week and he's already breaking her. Already, she catches herself thinking of_ not fighting back, _of taking her anger at Iraq and Lucky and swallow it down, like the men who make use of her mouth, but pride is a hard thing to overcome and Fisher sees it in her._

_If he'd beaten her to a pulp, she could've taken it, if he'd raped her six ways from Sunday, she was expecting no less, but this? This cruel, delicate game of his. And she understands it, she knows what he's doing, but it doesn't_ help. _He's rewriting her on some fundamental level, beyond hope of recovery. If she walks away — if — she doesn't know how much of her will still be left._

_She's not dying._

_Just before she passes out, he releases the wire, just enough for her stupid lungs to suck air back in, pull her back into wakefulness. It makes her wish he'd get it wrong, just once. So she fell unconscious, set free from it for just a few moments._

_Out there in the rest of the world, she's too stubborn and too proud to even entertain death, but in a room with Fisher it's a sweet promise of release. He's making a point, he doesn't like the way she holds herself, he disapproves of how she controls the clients. In the Infinite 92, that's not what a girl is supposed to be doing at all._

_She can't breathe, can't think and vicious black dots swim in her vision. The brief respite he gives her is not enough to clear her head. She hates how she rests against him. She hates how her arms have lost their strength and the kicking of her legs is feeble and useless._

_"You'll see, my love," he says with a calm amusement in his voice._

_Something wet slides down her face, tears and blood from where she's scratched herself, spit kicked up into foam from the corners of her gaping mouth_.

_In rare moments of peace, she still convinces herself she'll get through this. She's not_ weak, _but the conviction feels more distant every moment she spends there. She feels the way Fisher tightens the muscles in his arms and pulls tight again and the panic comes in a tidal wave, beating against the shore of her sanity._

Aiden's safe-house was small and tidy in a good neighbourhood in Parker Square. The garden was well-kept, the lawn had recently been mowed and the air was filled with the fresh scent of cut grass.

Some last few rays of sunset light crawled down the steps and stalked her into the basement, but they couldn't turn the corner into the empty room Aiden had dropped Fisher in. It was too empty, she thought, she could hear his voice in her head.

_"I'll leave a scar this time, I think," Fisher muses sweetly in her ear. "The clients will love it. It makes you look like you've been used. You should use it as a reminder, too. You keep forgetting who's in charge around here."_

Fisher was on the ground, handcuffed and with zip-ties around his legs, a rag stuffed into his mouth and black tape across it.

She could tell he'd been struggling before she walked in, but he stilled abruptly when he saw her. Bruises had formed in his face, some blood from a wound she couldn't see, perhaps from being thrown around in the trunk, some ricochetting bullet grazing him. His suit was dirty and dishevelled, sweat-damped hair fell into his face and obscured his expression.

She stepped forward and ripped the tape away, got back up and out of reach as Fisher spat out the rag.

"I don't believe in revenge," she said and her voice was barely a whisper.

Fisher studied her, composed despite his situation, but he'd never been a man easily awed or cowed. He summoned a leer and let it slide over her.

"Damn, Poppy, my love," he chuckled wetly, spat a gob of blood and saliva on the ground in front of him. "The _vigilante?_ You got the _vigilante_ working for you?" He shook his head, more to himself. "I _kept_ telling Lucky keeping you as a whore was a waste. You weren't even a very good one."

Through the white noise at the back of her head, Donna realised she'd have to watch the video Aiden had recovered. She couldn't bear not knowing what he was seeing in his head every time he looked at her.

"You fucked up," she said tonelessly.

Fisher chuckled. "It's hard to argue with that," he managed an awkward shrug in his bound position. "It's all been going down the drain, anyway. Niall isn't half the man his father was. He'll just blow it eventually, mark my words."

He thought for a moment, "And me? What's to become of me, my love?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. She had been afraid seeing him again would make her feel powerless, the way she had felt under his control, but instead she had trouble scrape together any emotion at all.

"How about you let me go, then?" Fisher offered with a hoarse, ironic laugh. "My loyalty just went up for sale. And you know what I always say, don't you? Everyone's a whore for the right price."

"What do you have to offer?"

"Oh, are we already negotiating?"

Donna shook her head slowly. "No," she said.

She took one careful step forward, a dull thud on the rough ground. Fisher shifted a little, trying to keep her in his sight, perhaps it was even the beginning of some defence he was too immobilised to muster.

"Are you afraid of me?" she asked as she watched him.

Fisher laughed again, “I don’t _do_ afraid. But you're sharp. Why do you think I worked you so hard? So you didn't get to think straight. Healthy respect, I'd call it, not afraid.”

She almost laughed at this, but it really wasn't funny. "It didn't feel like respect. Or healthy."

"That was the point," Fisher agreed, tried to shrug again, but his position didn't let him do it. "Lucky was a fool, but I guess he had his reasons for punishing you the way he did."

"I was a scapegoat."

She took another step and Fisher seemed to relax in his bonds, realising he wasn't going anywhere anyway.

"More's the pity," Fisher remarked. "Stupid Lucky. The things you could've done for us. Even the vigilante."

"No."

He shook his head. "Not now, obviously, but back then? Who knows?"

"No," she said again, but the word seemed hollowed out. Her life had changed so much, it was hard to imagine things turning out any other way. So much, in fact, she thought she wouldn't undo anything, even if she could.

"Tell him to be careful," Fisher continued and even the affected hilarity faded under the sudden menace. "The harder he pushes, the harder he'll be hunted. Everyone will want a turn when we finally take him down."

She dropped to her knees right in front of him, folded her hands along his jaw and made him face her.

"That's their mistake," she said, but Aiden barely mattered. He didn't need her to fight his battles for him. The skin on her throat tingled and she had to resist the urge to place her fingers on the scar to make sure it wasn't moving like a living thing.

"You aren't going to die," she said, but it sounded threatening in her own ears and Fisher heard it, too, saw something in her eyes and his congenial mask began to slip.

Donna wrapped a zip-tie around his throat until it rested snugly against his skin.

"I don't think it'll scar," she said. "I don't think you'll remember, either, but I want to see your face."

It took more effort than she had expected to tighten the zip-tie just right, choke him without killing, make him suffer without letting him pass out.

Fisher jerked and his eyes filled with panic as he realised what was happening. His shoulders worked, but unless he broke his fingers, he wouldn't get out of the handcuffs and he wouldn't have the presence of mind to contemplate it. His face turned a deep shade of crimson, blotched with blue and white. Eyes bulging and tongue lolling, he looked entirely ridiculous.

She watched him for a few minutes, but nothing much changed. He gagged and coughed and writhed on the ground in a useless attempt to free himself, to force more air down his lungs despite the constriction. She thought he was trying to say something, but he couldn't form words. It was better this way, she didn't know if she wanted to hear him beg or not.

Abruptly, Donna turned around and left, stepped through the door.

The sunset had faded by then, had been replaced by the murky residue of light, a single lightbulb was offering a weak replacement brightness, barely enough to see by.

Aiden stood at the bottom of the stairs, she felt him watching her as she watched him in turn. In a rush, she crossed over to him, fisted a hand into the worn-out fabric of his shirt and tugged him into a rough kiss. She wouldn't have been able to explain why, if someone had been there to ask, other than because she needed something to overpower the buzzing in her ears. It felt the same way, the same rush of blood in her head, setting her nerve-ends on fire, but even the slow slide of lips and tongue wasn't enough, so she turned it into a bite, sheered her teeth along the side of his mouth.

Aiden wrapped his hands around her waist, dragged her hips against his. The hold on his shirt was too feeble, so she brought her other hand up, clawed at the back of his neck.

She'd left the door ajar and the presence of Fisher beat itself back into her awareness, one ugly, rattling cough at a time. She bit Aiden's tongue, let him go just long enough to moan into his mouth. She was grinding into him, wanted him to finally move, take a step back or to the side to where there was a wall to fuck against…

Fisher grunted, whined desperately and she didn't _want_ him there, didn't want him to taint this, no matter how sickly satisfying it might seem. She drew back a fraction, sucked in a harsh gulp of air and let her eyes fall closed, leaned her head against Aiden without moving.

"Make him stop," she whispered.

Aiden stepped out of her embrace too fast, she barely managed to snap her hand up and catch his arm, make him turn back to her.

She said, "I _mean,_ I want him in jail, nothing else."

It was surprisingly hard to bear his scrutiny in that moment, incomprehension and maybe even disapproval, but he didn't say anything. He gave her a barely perceptible nod and she let go of him.

He vanished through the door and after a moment, Fisher's rattling subsided into a mere whimper, coughing as his freed throat worked to bring air back into his lungs. She wondered briefly if it had been worth it. What had been the point? Retribution? But that should make her feel better and it did, just not as much as she'd thought it would. Her skin itched, not just on her throat, all over her body.

* * *

Some kind of muffling veil still seemed to be wrapped around her ears as she leaned her back against the counter in the kitchen, watched Aiden and Abbie face each other across the table. She'd set water to boil in a badly limed up electric kettle and the long time it took would be annoying if anyone, herself included, actually cared about it. It was a backdrop, a minor distraction to take the edge off.

Donna listened to Aiden talking, he was close enough she could just reach out and touch his shoulder, but his voice drifted to her from very far away. She saw only the side of his face, but she knew the tone of his voice. She knew he was _lying._ Not always, not even at the core of what he was saying, but the version of events he set out for Abbie was riddled with omissions, miss-leading half-truths, misrepresentations and deflections.

Donna knew he'd killed Maurice, but he never said it. She knew he wasn't sorry, but he sounded sincere when he offered his sympathies. He spoke slowly, deep voice soothing against the low, grating buildup of the kettle.

Abbie was still throughout, frozen in her seat and even her face was stone. Aiden had offered her to shower first, take a break, a nap on the couch or even a full-night's undisturbed sleep, but she had refused. Donna wasn't sure if it was the right choice, but she understood the reason for it.

"He's dead," Abbie said, the confirmation she needed for herself.

"There was no way to save him," Aiden said and even Donna didn't know if that was true or not. If Bellwether had broken Maurice's mind the way Aiden had explained, perhaps death had been a mercy. It didn't count, though, because it hadn't _been_ an act of compassion at all.

Abbie buried her face in her shaking hands, eerily silent as her shoulders twitched, fighting for composure she was too exhausted to regain. The water boiled up, then slowly settled back down, forgotten the moment it happened.

Aiden watched Abbie for a long time, as she struggled with herself, shoulders pulled in, face hidden, looking desperately for a way to express her grief before it tore her apart. He reached for her, carefully, just a slight touch on her arm, giving her all the chance in the world to pull away, or just to ignore him completely. She didn't, however. Even that light touch was enough to shatter her, but it set her free, too. She folded against him and finally started crying, heaving sobs wreaking her entire body.

Aiden still hesitated, but her anguish made him put an arm around her in the end, a careful touch, she might as well be made of cracked porcelain.

* * *

A few days later, a gentle summer wind whispered in the trees around the cemetery. Set back from the street, it was peaceful, a calm sort of sorrow that ached, but didn't seem too terrible to bear.

Donna followed the path away from Lena's grave and stopped by Aiden's side. His gaze moved over her, then followed back the way she'd come, looked at the cheerful yellow flowers she'd left there and said nothing. After a time, he seemed to force himself to let it go, turned away and turned his gaze on Abbie, where she was kneeling at Maurice's grave.

“Maurice…" Aiden said, breaking his long silence, but he seemed to be barely speaking to Donna. "He took the shot that day. If he hadn’t… Lena would still be alive, but now… I don't know what choice he really had.”

He fell silent, laughed sadly.

“She was a wild child. Lena," he continued, as his laugh broke at the memory. "She loved scary stuff. She loved it when we went camping up in Pawnee and it got dark and you heard all the weird noises around. She didn’t want to sleep, just sit at the campfire all night, making up stories about mythical monsters and lost Indian tribes. She wanted to go play hide and seek at two in the morning. I think I was far more scared than she was, that I could lose her out there.”

"She sounds a lot like you."

"And like Nicky, too. Jacks… he's always been more thoughtful, but he's changed since she died. Trying to compensate for her absence, I think. We all changed."

He put his head back, eyes closed and the muscles in his jaw clenching as he fought to compose himself. He shook his head, flexed his shoulders and breathed a long sigh. "If Maurice hadn't taken that shot…"

Donna's gaze wandered over to Lena's grave and then further, to where Abbie was still kneeling at Maurice's. She didn't notice when he looked down at her, still something raw in his face and a treacherously wet glint in his eyes.

"What about you?" he asked. "How are you doing?"

She surprised herself with an unimpressed snort, but she had to take a deep breath before she trusted her voice enough to speak. "Not very different. I still have the same scars, I still have the same memories. It's good that Fisher won't be able to hurt anyone again for a long time, but… I'm the same. It's all the same."

"There's room here for another grave."

She shook her head, found herself smiling a little at the absurdity of it. None of these sorry events suggested death was a solution for anything.

She said, "I don't want to kill him." She looked at him, caught the change in his expression and forestalled him, "And you're not my personal hitman."

She shook her head, "Let it be over," she said, but it wasn't as easy as she'd expected it to. "My past will come up again every so often, but I've got to move on. Heal, you know?"

Aiden turned his head to meet her gaze. She knew him well enough by now to suspect when he wasn't being entirely truthful, but his expression was still mild, softened by the memory of his niece and perhaps placated by recent events.

He said, "Whatever you need."

He hesitated another moment, then reached for her, slipped a hand down her back, around her waist. He pulled her gaze along to Abbie, who was just pulling herself back to her feet. Her shoulders were tense, shivering slightly, but she was visibly trying to collect herself.

"Will she be alright?" Aiden asked.

"Well," Donna said. "For now, she can stay in a woman's shelter and they'll get her into therapy. If she'll ever be 'alright' again, I can't tell you."

"She doesn't have any other family, it'll be hard. If there's something I can do, _anything,_ just let me know."

Aiden's phone buzzed. Donna recognised the sound as some kind of alarm. Aiden pulled it out, but glanced at it only briefly, then looked up and scanned his surroundings before he looked down on the phone again. He sighed quietly.

"I should leave," he said and contradicted himself by squeezing her closer to him.

Donna smiled a little. "Come by tonight, I'll cook us something."

"I didn't know you cooked."

"Well, I know _you_ don't, and I'm in the mood for some peace and quiet, so I can't take you out in public. _And_ we both should eat something other than takeout once in a while."

Aiden slanted his head down, kissed her slowly, but then drew back when his phone buzzed again.

"No need to convince me," he said. "I'm already sold."

* * *

Vincent Fisher took stock of the small room while he waited for his lawyer. Two corners had cameras and a futuristic-looking lock and intercom at the door. No doubt there were other surveillance measures in place, the ones that wouldn't be turned off when he spoke with his lawyer. Those wouldn't be usable in court, but it still gave the cops an edge in their investigation. Everyone who thought something else needed a crash-course in paranoia.

The door opened to admit a grey-suited man inside. He waited while the door was closed and the signal lights on the cameras turned off. The man took two crisp steps to the table, set his briefcase down and snapped it open. He watched Fisher and seemed to be waiting for something. Clean-shaven and professionally smooth, Fisher took a long moment before he identified him.

“It’s you!” Fisher announced, though there was no one here who could hear. Pearce probably had blocked all surveillance, even the covert one.

Pearce bent him a smirk as he sat down, pulled out his phone and set it on the table.

“Do you know this woman?” he asked.

Fisher hesitated, gaze digging into Pearce, gauging him, before he dropped it to the phone. Fisher bared his teeth.

“Yes, I do. Damn that girl,” he growled. He pointed in the air, “This one? Too fucking smart for a whore. The trouble just never ends with that kind. Can’t trust them, can’t let them out of your sight. You’ll never know what they’re plotting behind your back. They don’t respect you, they just _pretend.”_

He stopped, looked back up at Pearce. “But she always did like big fish, but I didn't think she'd manage to reel you in. Always pegged you for one of my kind, you know. But I guess that makes me feel a little better. You’re just like the rest of them, thinking with your dick.”

Pearce settled back in his chair, pensive gaze on Fisher and his expression unreadable.

“Wrong answer,” he said. “We’ll try again.”

Fisher chuckled, pulled his own chair back and sat down, leaned forward with the same leer. “That’s cute. You’re scared I’ll ID her. Of course I will. It's not personal, I almost like the little whore, you know. But she deserves what's coming for her. So do you, by the way. Cops are pretty dumb, of course, but if they get to her, do you think they could get to you?”

Pearce was still for a minute, then swiped the phone up, flicked a thumb across the screen.

“This prison is run quite well,” he said calmly. "Putting you in a cell block with mostly Club members, a couple of fixers, lots of unaffiliated. Not a dangerous place for you, keeps the peace.”

He glanced up briefly. “But let’s imagine you're transferred elsewhere, some bug in the software perhaps.” He gestured slightly with the phone, drew a narrow circle before he steadied it. “For example, to a cell block with Militia members. I hear they’re in a turf war with the Club, how well do you think you’ll do there?”

The sneering expression on Fisher’s face slowly faded, though he clearly tried to hold on to it.

“You…” Fisher began, but stopped when Pearce turned the phone back around.

“Do you know this woman?” Pearce asked, same tone he’d used before.

Fisher chuckled. "How could I forget that lovely face?”

"Wrong again." Pearce shrugged. “She’s the only reason you’re still alive, think on that for a moment."

"I like to spread my misery around and I'm really an ungrateful bastard."

Pearce just kept watching him. "But if you die in some unfortunate prison shower incident, I don't think she'd blame me, do you agree?"

Fisher had opened his mouth, but he snapped his teeth closed instead, only stared back at Pearce. Certainly, Pearce had the means to back up everything he said.

"Now," Pearce said, turned the phone around again. "Do you know this woman?"

Fisher looked at the phone and the picture, compelled even though he'd not see anything new there, face finally settled into concentration as he ran his options through his mind. He looked back at Pearce and tried to smirk or sneer, but the expression was forced.

"Well, if it's that important to you, no, never seen the whore in my life," he said, shrugged. "How about the vigilante, though? Maybe I've seen him? Right here, in the middle of a _prison_."

He arched his brows inquisitively. "Do you even have an exit strategy?"

Pearce didn't seem impressed. He shrugged again, put the phone away and rested his empty hands on the table between them.

"You don't know _her,_ " Pearce said. "Be as chatty as you want about me."

Fisher's smirk was coming easier again. He said, "Sure, can't _wait_ to start."

Pearce didn't answer, he just stood up and put his briefcase on the table between them, sorted the papers he'd taken out earlier back into it, gave Fisher only a casual glance as he worked. He took a step forward, to the side of the table.

"Don't worry about your lawyer, I just waylaid her for a bit," he said lightly. "She'll be here by the time you wake up."

"By the time… what?"

Realisation hit Fisher at the same time Pearce's hand landed on his shoulder, tucked on his collar and plunged a long syringe into his neck. Fisher struggled to the side, made a half-hearted lunge at Pearce as his vision washed out. He blinked a few times in confusion, then folded forward without a sound. He fell over his own chair and toppled it under him, landing in a messy heap on the floor.

Pearce watched him for a moment, then hid the syringe under the papers in his briefcase and went to the door to activate the intercom.

"I believe my client has just collapsed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Revised on 10/May/2017**


End file.
